Daniel
by Quietly Making Noise
Summary: When the Black Pearl attacked Port Royal, who was that little boy standing and screaming? Short, thoughtful piece with no mention of Mr. Sparrow.


A/N: This is mostly me trying to prove to myself that I can write properly about PotC, without mentioning Jack Sparrow. O=)  
  
-=- -=- -=-  
  
I can still remember the attack, although I was barely five years old. The night was cold and windy, and I remember being scared by the moaning it made as it chased down the narrow alleys. Our cat ran away that night. I remember running after her, she as silent as a black ghost, my bare feet slapping loudly against the cobbles.  
  
I chased her for what seemed like ages, calling her name. 'Pepper! Pepper!' Silly name for a cat, now I think about it. The wind picked up, and the sign of the inn above my head creaked sadly.  
  
There were several short dull noises, muffled bangs. In confusion, I remember stopping still whilst my child's mind tried to understand what was happening. I could see the dark shape of a tall ship in the bay, and something flashed on its side.  
  
Then the terror began. Explosions tore through the still night air, and the sharp sting of gunpowder entered my nostrils. I remember screaming, and I can't be sure I stopped for a good while. I was frozen to the spot with shock.  
  
All around me people were running in panic, out of the houses which lined both sides of the street, squashed together. Another explosion took a sizable chunk out of the building nearest to me.  
  
My screaming was not totally incoherent. A woman I didn't know caught me up in her arms at my cries. I clung with chubby fingers to the shoulder of her dress; her bonnet smelt wrong to my young nose.  
  
I could only think of my mummy and older sisters. Our house overlooked the harbour, and the cannon fire had been concentrated around that area. Looking back, I thank Pepper for running away, for it was she who undoubtedly saved my life.  
  
Mingled with the screams and cries of men and women came a much more purposeful sound. From over the woman's shoulder, I could see a gang of men come rushing up the street. They were all filthy dirty, carrying a wicked assortment of weapons. They were shouting – words I couldn't understand. Before they could notice us, we turned a corner.  
  
The woman who carried me fled down a narrow back alley and into a tiny door. She had to bend her head to get in, and she cupped her hand over mine so she wouldn't knock me out. I was past the tears now, and fear replaced blood in my veins. I remember shaking.  
  
The woman set me down on the hay-strewn floor and shut the door, slumping against it in relief. I stood uncertainly. Then I began to bawl again, stammering out, 'I want my mummy!' The woman scooped me up again and tried to console me against her breast, but I would not be comforted.  
  
'Shhh, please hush, child... you'll get us killed...' she whispered, stroking the nape of my neck with her fingers. Her voice was thin and tight with panic. Gradually I calmed, having exhausted my lungs.  
  
We lay in silence for a long time in that cellar, listening to the muted massacre taking place outside. I must have drifted into sleep, for I remember nothing for a good portion of that night.  
  
Eventually I was awoken by a gentle shaking. The woman, my saviour, took my little hand and led me outside.  
  
It was early morning. The town was over the shock of what had happened, and was resolutely getting itself back together. 'Let's find your mummy, shall we?' The woman began leading me through the wrecked streets.  
  
My wide eyes slipped from one horror to the next. The worst sight of all came as we walked mournfully along the main street. I happened to look up, recognising my surroundings.  
  
I shrieked in utter shock. The woman tensed and followed my gaze.  
  
The street that ran along the cliff top, my street, my house, had been crushed to the ground by the cannon fire. The ruins smoked gently. The woman's hands went to her mouth, 'Dear God...'  
  
-=-  
  
Dear God...  
  
That's the phrase which has stuck in my mind. Back then, I was too young to understand fully what had happened. The word 'pirate' hadn't entered my vocabulary. All I could think about was how alone I suddenly was.  
  
That was fifteen years ago. Sometimes I think myself stupid to dedicate my life to the sea, after the scum it brought to Port Royal that night. But I do a different kind of work than they did, work with a bayonet and a red uniform, legal work. I've made it my business to hunt down men with no morals like those who murdered so many that night.  
  
I haven't spoken a word since that night. My silence only reminds me what horrors I was exposed too, and fuels my hatred of that most despicable of "occupations".  
  
Pirates. To hell with them all. 


End file.
